autumn and winter had passed without anything happening to confirm her suspicions, but now with the return of the spring, with the blowing of the march winds, the devil took up his work again.
paul went out at night, and he went to the old house.
"what shall i do, how can i save him?"
but the wind only mocked at her in reply, shaking the house door with its furious blasts.
she remembered their first coming to the village, immediately after paul had been appointed parish priest here. for twenty years she had been in service and had resisted every temptation, every prompting and instinct of nature, depriving herself of love, even of bread itself, in order that she might bring up her boy rightly and set him a good example. then they came here, and just such a furious wind as this had beset them on their journey. it had been springtime then, too, but the whole valley seemed to have slipped back into the grip of winter. leaves were blown hither and thither, the trees bent before the blast, leaning one against another, as though gazing fearfully at the battalions of black clouds driving rapidly across the sky from all parts of the horizon, while large hailstones fell and bruised the tender green.
at the point where the road turns, over-looking the valley, and then descends towards the river, there was such a sudden onslaught of wind that the horses came to a dead stop, pricking their ears and neighing with fear. the storm shook their bridles like some bandit who had seized their heads to stop them that he might rob the travellers, and even paul, although apparently he was enjoying the adventure, had cried out with vague superstition in his voice:
"it must be the evil spirit of the old priest trying to prevent us coming here!"
but his words were lost in the shrill whistling of the wind, and although he smiled a little ruefully, a one-sided smile that touched but one corner of his lips, his eyes were sad as they rested on the village which now came in sight, like a picture hanging on the green hill-side on the opposite slope of the valley beyond the tumbling stream.
the wind dropped a little after they had crossed the river. the people of the village, who were as ready to welcome the new priest as though he were the messiah, were all gathered together in the piazza before the church, and on a sudden impulse a group of the younger men amongst them had gone down to meet the travellers on the river bank. they descended the hill like a flight of young eagles from the mountains, and the air resounded with their merry shouts. when they reached their parish priest they gathered round him and bore him up the hill in triumph, every now and then firing their guns into the air as a mark of rejoicing. the whole valley echoed with their cheering and firing, the wind itself was pacified and the weather began to clear up.
even in this present hour of anguish the mother's heart swelled with pride when she recalled that other hour of triumph. again she seemed to be living in a dream, to be borne as though on a cloud by those noisy youths, while beside her walked her paul, so boyish still, but with a look half divine upon his face as those strong men bowed before him with respect.
up and up they climbed. fireworks were being let off on the highest and barest point of the ridge, the flames streaming out like red banners against the background of black clouds and casting their reflections on the grey village, the green hill-side and the tamarisks and elder-trees that bordered the path.
up and still up they went. over the parapet of the piazza leaned another wall of human bodies and eager faces crowned with men's caps or framed in women's kerchiefs with long fluttering fringes. the children's eyes danced with delight at the unwonted excitement, and on the edge of the ridge the figures of the boys tending the fireworks looked like slender black demons in the distance.
through the wide-open door of the church the flames of the lighted candles could be seen trembling like narcissi in the wind; the bells were ringing loudly, and even the clouds in the pale silvery sky seemed to have gathered round the tower to watch and wait.
suddenly a cry rang out from the little crowd: "here he is! here he is!... and he looks like a saint!"
there was nothing of a saint about him, however, except that air of utter calm: he did not speak, he did not even acknowledge the people's greetings, he seemed in no way moved by that popular demonstration: he only pressed his lips tightly together and bent his eyes upon the ground with a slight frown, as though tired by the burden of that heavy brow. then suddenly, when they had reached the piazza and were surrounded by the welcoming throng, the mother saw him falter as though about to fall, a man supported him for an instant, then immediately he recovered his balance and turning swiftly into the church he fell on his knees before the altar and began to intone the evening prayer.
and the weeping women gave the responses.
the poor women wept, but their tears were the happy tears of love and hope and the longing for a joy not of this world, and the mother felt the balm of those tears falling on her heart even in this hour of her grief. her paul! her love, her hope, the embodiment of her desire for unearthly joy! and now the spirit of evil was drawing him away, and she sat there at the bottom of the staircase as at the bottom of a well, and made no effort to rescue him.
she felt she was suffocating, her heart was heavy as a stone. she got up in order to breathe more easily, and mounting the stairs she picked up the lamp and held it aloft as she looked round her bare little room, where a wooden bedstead and a worm-eaten wardrobe kept each other company as the only furniture in the place. it was a room fit only for a servant—she had never desired to better her lot, content to find her only wealth in being the mother of her paul.
then she went into his room with its white walls and the narrow virginal bed. this chamber had once been kept as simple and tidy as that of a girl; he had loved quiet, silence, order, and always had flowers upon his little writing-table in front of the window. but latterly he had not cared about anything: he had left his drawers and cupboards open and his books littered about on the chairs or even on the floor.
the water in which he had washed before going out exhaled a strong scent of roses: a coat had been flung off carelessly and lay on the floor like a prostrate shadow of himself. that sight and that scent roused the mother from her preoccupation: she picked up the coat and thought scornfully that she would be strong enough even to pick up her son himself. then she tidied the room, clattering to and fro without troubling now to deaden the sound of her heavy peasant shoes. she drew up to the table the leather chair in which he sat to read, thumping it down on the floor as though ordering it to remain in its place awaiting the speedy return of its master. then she turned to the little mirror hanging beside the window....
mirrors are forbidden in a priest's house, he must forget that he has a body. on this point, at least, the old priest had observed the law, and from the road he could have been seen shaving himself by the open window, behind the panes of which he had hung a black cloth to throw up the reflection. but paul, on the contrary, was attracted to the mirror as to a well from whose depths a face smiled up at him, luring him down to perish. but it was the mother's own scornful face and threatening eyes that the little mirror reflected now, and with rising anger she put out her hand and tore it from its nail. then she flung the window wide open and let the wind blow in to purify the room: the books and papers on the table seemed to come alive, twisting and circling into every corner, the fringe of the bed-cover shook and waved and the flame of the lamp flickered almost to extinction.
she gathered up the books and papers and replaced them on the table. then she noticed an open bible, with a coloured picture that she greatly admired, and she bent down to examine it more closely. there was jesus the good shepherd watering his sheep at a spring in the midst of a forest. between the trees, against the background of blue sky, could be seen a distant city, red in the light of the setting sun, a holy city, the city of salvation.
there had been a time when he used to study far into the night; the stars over the ridge looked in at his window and the nightingales sang him their plaintive notes. for the first year after they came to the village he often talked of leaving and going back into the world: then he settled down into a sort of waking sleep, in the shadow of the ridge and the murmur of the trees. thus seven years passed, and his mother never suggested they should move elsewhere, for they were so happy in the little village that seemed to her the most beautiful in all the world, because her paul was its saviour and its king.
she closed the window and replaced the mirror, which showed her now her own face grown white and drawn, her eyes dim with tears. again she asked herself if perhaps she were not mistaken. she turned towards a crucifix which hung on the wall above a kneeling-stool, raising the lamp above her head that she might see it better; and midst the shadows that her movements threw on the wall it seemed as though the christ, thin and naked, stretched upon the cross, bowed his head to hear her prayer. and great tears coursed down her face and fell upon her dress, heavy as tears of blood.
"lord, save us all! save thou me, even me. thou who hangest there pale and bloodless, thou whose face beneath its crown of thorns is sweet as a wild rose, thou who art above our wretched passions, save us all!"
then she hurried out of the room and went downstairs. she passed through the tiny dining-room, where drowsy flies, startled by the lamp, buzzed heavily round and the howling wind and swaying trees outside beat like rain upon the small, high window and thence into the kitchen, where she sat down before the fire, already banked up with cinders for the night. even there the wind seemed to penetrate by every crack and cranny, so that instead of being in the long low kitchen, whose uneven ceiling was supported by smoke-blackened beams and rafters, she felt as if she were in a rocking boat adrift on a stormy sea. and although determined to wait up for her son and begin the battle at once, she still fought against conviction and tried to persuade herself that she was mistaken.
she felt it unjust that god should send her such sorrow, and she went back over her past life, day by day, trying to find some reason for her present unhappiness; but all her days had passed hard and clean as the beads of the rosary she held in her shaking fingers. she had done no wrong, unless perchance sometimes in her thoughts.
she saw herself again as an orphan in the house of poor relations, in that same village, ill-treated by every one, toiling barefoot, bearing heavy burdens on her head, washing clothes in the river, or carrying corn to the mill. an elderly man, a relative of hers, was employed by the miller, and each time she went down to the mill, if there was nobody to see him, he followed her into the bushes and tufts of tamarisk and kissed her by force, pricking her face with his bristly beard and covering her with flour. when she told of this, the aunts with whom she lived would not let her go to the mill again. then one day the man, who ordinarily never came up to the village, suddenly appeared at the house and said he wished to marry the girl. the other members of the family laughed at him, slapped him on the back and brushed the flour off his coat with a broom. but he took no notice of their jests and kept his eyes fixed on the girl. at last she consented to marry him, but she continued to live with her relations and went down each day to the mill to see her husband, who always gave her a small measure of flour unknown to his master. then one day as she was going home with her apron full of flour she felt something move beneath it. startled, she dropped the corners of her apron and all the flour was scattered, and she was so giddy that she had to sit down on the ground. she thought it was an earthquake, the houses rocked before her eyes, the path went up and down and she flung herself prone on the floury grass. then she got up and ran home laughing, yet afraid, for she knew she was with child.
she was left a widow before her paul was old enough to talk, but his bright baby eyes followed her everywhere, and she had mourned for her husband as for a good old man who had been kind to her, but nothing more. she was soon consoled, however, for a cousin proposed that they should go together to the town and there take service.
"in that way you will be able to support your boy, and later on you can send for him and put him to school."
and so she worked and lived only for him.
she had lacked neither the occasion nor the inclination to indulge in pleasures, if not in sin. master and servants, peasant and townsman, all had tried to catch her as once the old kinsman had caught her amongst the tamarisks. man is a hunter and woman his prey, but she had succeeded in evading all pitfalls and keeping herself pure and good, since she already looked on herself as the mother of a priest. then wherefore now this chastisement, o lord?
she bowed her weary head and the tears rolled down her face and fell on the rosary in her lap.
gradually she grew drowsy, and confused memories floated through her mind. she thought she was in the big warm kitchen of the seminary, where she had been servant for ten years and where she had succeeded in getting her paul admitted as student. black figures went silently to and fro, and in the passage outside she could hear the smothered laughter and larking the boys indulged in when there was nobody to reprove them. tired to death, she sat beside a window opening on to a dark yard, a duster on her lap, but too weary to move so much as a finger towards her work. in the dream, too, she was waiting for paul, who had slipped out of the seminary secretly without telling her where he was going.
"if they find out they will expel him at once," she thought, and she waited anxiously till the house was quite quiet that she might let him in without being observed.
suddenly she awoke and found herself back in the narrow presbytery kitchen, shaken by the wind like a ship at sea, but the impression of the dream was so strong that she felt on her lap for the duster and listened for the smothered laughter of the boys knocking each other about in the passage. then in a moment reality gripped her again, and she thought paul must have come in while she was fast asleep and thus succeeded in escaping her notice. and actually, midst all the creakings and shaking caused by the wind, she could hear steps inside the house: some one was coming downstairs, crossing the ground-floor rooms, entering the kitchen. she thought she was still dreaming when a short, stout priest, with a week's growth of beard upon his chin, stood before her and looked her in the face with a smile. the few teeth he had left were blackened with too much smoking, his light-coloured eyes pretended to be fierce, but she could tell that he was really laughing, and immediately she knew him for the former priest—but still she did not feel afraid.
"it is only a dream," she told herself, but in reality she knew she only said that to give herself courage and that it was no phantom, but a fact.
"sit down," she said, moving her stool aside to make room for him in front of the fire. he sat down and drew up his cassock a little, exhibiting a pair of discoloured and worn blue stockings.
"since you are sitting here doing nothing, you might mend my stockings for me, maria maddalena: i have no woman to look after me," he said simply. and she thought to herself:
"can this be the terrible priest? that shows i am still dreaming."
and then she tried to make him betray himself:
"if you are dead you have no need of stockings," she said.
"how do you know i am dead? i am very much alive, on the contrary, and sitting here. and before long i am going to drive both you and your son out of my parish. it was a bad thing for you, coming here, you had better have brought him up to follow his father's trade. but you are an ambitious woman, and you wanted to come back as mistress where you had lived as a servant: so now you will see what you have gained by it!"
"we will go away," she answered humbly and sadly. "indeed, i want to go. man or ghost, whatever you are, have patience for a few days and we shall be gone."
"and where can you go?" said the old priest. "wherever you go it will be the same thing. take rather the advice of one who knows what he is talking about and let your paul follow his destiny. let him know the woman, otherwise the same thing will befall him that befell me. when i was young i would have nothing to do with women, nor with any other kind of pleasure. i only thought of winning paradise, and i failed to perceive that paradise is here on earth. when i did perceive it, it was too late: my arm could no longer reach up to gather the fruit of the tree and my knees would not bend that i might quench my thirst at the spring. so then i began to drink wine, to smoke a pipe and to play cards with all the rascals of the place. you call them rascals, but i call them honest lads who enjoy life as they find it. it does one good to be in their company, it diffuses a little warmth and merriment, like the company of boys on a holiday. the only difference is that it is always holiday for them, and therefore they are even merrier and more careless than the boys, who cannot forget that they must soon go back to school."
while he was talking thus the mother thought to herself:
"he is only saying these things in order to persuade me to leave my paul alone and let him be damned. he has been sent by his friend and master, the devil, and i must be on my guard."
yet, in spite of herself, she listened to him readily and found herself almost agreeing with what he said. she reflected that, in spite of all her efforts, paul too might "take a holiday," and instinctively her mother's heart instantly sought excuses for him.
"you may be right," she said with increased sadness and humility, which now, however, was partly pretence. "i am only a poor, ignorant woman and don't understand very much: but one thing i am sure of, that god sent us into the world to suffer."
"god sent us into the world to enjoy it. he sends suffering to punish us for not having understood how to enjoy, and that is the truth, you fool of a woman! god created the world with all its beauty and gave it to man for his pleasure: so much the worse for him if he does not understand! but why should i trouble to explain this to you—all i mind about is turning you out of this place, you and your paul, and so much the worse for you if you want to stop!"
"we are going, never fear, we are going very soon. that i can promise you, for it's my wish, too."
"you only say that because you are afraid of me. but you are wrong to be afraid. you think that it was i who prevented your feet from walking and your matches from striking: and perhaps it was i, but that is not to say that i mean any harm to you or your paul. i only want you to go away. and mind, if you do not keep your word you will be sorry! well, you will see me again and i shall remind you of this conversation. meanwhile, i will leave you my stockings to mend."
"very well, i will mend them."
"then shut your eyes, for i don't choose that you should see my bare legs. ha, ha!" he laughed, pulling off one shoe with the toe of the other and bending down to draw off his stockings, "no woman has ever seen my bare flesh, however much they have slandered me, and you are too old and ugly to be the first. here is one stocking, and here is the other; i shall come and fetch them soon...."
she opened her eyes with a start. she was alone again, in the kitchen with the wind howling round it.
"o lord, what a dream!" she murmured with a sigh. nevertheless, she stooped to look for the stockings, and she thought she heard the faint footfall of the ghost as it passed out of the kitchen, vanishing through the closed door.
